Broken Pieces
by BeautifulMorningStar
Summary: This is a kinda long one-shot, total Carl/Blake slash. Angsty, dark, not fluffy except a tiny bit at the end. Plot takes a bit of a dramatic turn, once again I warn you, it's angsty. Hope you like :D Set when they're older in high school.


**A/N : This is just a (kinda long) one-shot, another slash Carl/Blake piece... because I felt like it :D It's kinda angsty and a little dark, and the background plot may be upsetting if you're a huge Hoodsey fan… also, I must warn you this is not fluffy slash, it's angsty, rough slash, and there's a bit of violence. Don't read if you don't like that sorta stuff. This story does NOT run parallel to "I Dare You". I hope you like it :D Review please?**

A cunning smirk unfolded on seventeen-year-old Carl's face, the kind of smirk that would have had certain girls sighing and fanning themselves with their hands. It was his trademark demonic smile that would have had other boys backing away slowly, and juniors running for cover.

At the moment, however, nobody was there to see it - nobody except an oblivious, platinum-haired young man who was too preoccupied with his iPod to even realize that he wasn't alone.

Carl's smirk grew wider, his brown-flecked green eyes shining with dark mirth. The opportunity was just too perfect to let pass. The blonde he had been tailing for the past five minutes had suddenly come to a halt, right outside the janitor's closet. Carl could make out the dark, empty interior though the door was half-shut – perfect.

In one swift move, he ran forward and shoved Blake Gripling into the deserted storage room, much to the slimmer boy's shock. He then stepped inside himself, and shut the door with a resounding snap behind him, sliding the small metallic lock into place.

The other boy's shoulder had hit against the door, and he had ended up falling on his butt, spluttering indignantly. He had honestly never seen it coming – he had been too wrapped up in his own thoughts, and the music blasting in his ears through his earphones, to notice that he had had a vengeful shadow after him for some time now.

Since it was a Saturday, the only parts of the high school that had any life were the gymnasium and the meeting rooms – both on the other side of school. Blake had not expected to encounter anyone else as he went to collect the folder with his forgotten assignment papers, which he had left in his locker the day before.

Rubbing his sore shoulder, he looked up and squinted through the darkness at his attacker. His big, light blue eyes widened fearfully as he recognized the tall, lean frame and familiar stance of Carl Foutley. Suddenly, his stinging shoulder and dropped folder seemed to be the least of his worries.

"C-Carl!" he blurted out, instantly regretting the slight quaver in his voice.

"Hey there, Blakey-boy," Carl's low voice was smooth and even rather pleasant, but running underneath it was a current of dangerous anger that made Blake's slender frame shudder. "Long time no see. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you'd been _avoiding_ me…"

Blake moved backwards, away from the looming figure above him until he found himself backed up against the wall, next to a large, overturned bucket. "M-me, avoiding you, Carl? W-why would I do that? Perish the thought…" His voice trailed off as Carl swiftly closed the distance between them and slid down into a crouch, bringing his face level to Blake's.

"Really, Blakey, you don't even sound the least bit convincing. I'd always thought you were a better actor than this," Carl purred. He knew Blake could make out his expression; there were barely inches between their two faces… and judging from the terrified look of the younger boy, Carl supposed he didn't look all too friendly at the moment.

The thought put a twisted grin on his face, and Blake started wishing he could morph through the wall pressed up against his back and get away.

"Maybe…" Carl continued, his eyes burning into the wide ones before him, "It's because you already _know_ there's no escaping."

Blake's breathing was starting to become strained. With Foutley so close to him, there were all sorts of emotions wreaking havoc inside him, but the one with the strongest grip on him at the moment was easily fear. It paralyzed him, erasing his mind like a blank slate, and he was too slow to use his wits to try and get out of this tricky situation, like he would normally have done.

"Carl." Blake drew a deep, shaky breath, tearing his eyes away from the antagonistic stare of the redhead. "Please, you're not making sense… I have n-no idea why you're doing-"

"I know it was you, Gripling." The smooth, low voice was as cold as ice. A rigid hand came up to rest, palm-up on the wall beside Blake's face, making the fifteen-year-old flinch slightly.

"I – I don't know what you're talking about, Foutley!" Panic laced the words, as the memory of shattered glass on a tiled floor flashed through Blake's mind.

"Don't lie to me, Gripling!" Carl hissed, hitting his fist against the wall right next to Blake's head, in his anger. He heard Blake gasp and quickly drew back from the smaller boy. If he wasn't careful, he might explode and attack Blake, might actually hurt him. Carl didn't really want to hurt him… too much.

They had been very good friends, after all. Carl had grown to really like the younger boy during high school, and even Hoodsey had come to a point of acceptance with Blake. Although he never quite formed the sort of close, competitive, undeniably strong connection with Blake that Carl surprisingly had.

The connection that Carl had severed nearly half a year ago, in his confusion and grief.

Ever since the car accident four months ago, ever since Hoodsey's sinking into a coma, Carl had been on a steady descent to hell. He had been particularly down that horrible night, depressed from a recent meeting with Noelle, during which he had approached her once again, and been turned down, once again. Noelle had grown into a surprisingly tall, attractive young woman, glasses replaced with contacts, dark brown hair cut stylishly to her shoulders.

She didn't attend the same high school as the boys, but they had kept in touch, and Carl had found himself gravitating towards her once again… but Noelle declared that his heart was not truly devoted to her, that she sensed denial and heavy attraction in him towards another. Carl had declared that he had no idea what she was talking about; she was the only woman he had eyes for.

Noelle had knowingly looked at him, and told him that she didn't doubt that, but perhaps he had to search his feelings more carefully. Besides… she had a boyfriend. That was an unexpected blow that Carl had not been ready for, and he had ended up skulking around outside her high school until he had seen her with a tall, pale guy sporting pitch-black hair and a gothic look.

That night, Hoodsey had taken an upset Carl out to a party at a classmate's house, where they both became successfully drunk. Belatedly recalling a curfew, the two boys had piled into Hoodsey's car, with the plastered owner at the wheel, and Carl in the passenger's seat, too far gone to remember his usual Foutley morals and common sense. Sometime during that trip, everything had gone so horribly wrong…

Carl shook himself slightly as flashbacks whipped through his head faster than he could stand. His anger had dissipated slightly; but he knew it would be back shortly. Most of his waking hours were spent in pointless rage and confusion, his sleep disturbed by terrifying nightmares and raw grief.

He had gained consciousness a whole day after the accident, with a concussion and minor injuries, but Hoodsey had remained unconscious in his hospital bed until this day.

Blake stared at Carl sadly, fear forgotten. He knew the aggressive, troubled teenager was brooding again on the tragedy that had befallen him… even with the lack of light, Blake could tell Carl had that disturbingly sullen, faraway look he had worn countless times since the accident. How often had he tried to reach out to Carl, to comfort him, only to have his efforts cut short and pushed away, like everyone else who tried to help Carl?

He sighed. Carl's form stirred at the sound of it, and he saw the redhead look back up at him, fixing his gaze on him once more. The silence that had pervaded the small room stretched on, becoming more uncomfortable.

"Carl," Blake said softly. He reached out a hand hesitantly, and placed it on his old friend's arm. To his surprise, he was not roughly shaken off. He took a bit of courage in this, and sat up from his hunched slouch against the wall, straining to see Carl's face the whole time.

"It's alright, Carl." A whisper as Carl hung his head. "Things will work out for the better…"

"Will it?" Carl croaked out. He shook his head, confused again. It had been so long since he had been this close to Blake, he had spent all his energy avoiding practically everyone for so long now, the younger boy included…

Blake's heart ached for his lost friend. The painful feeling drew his memory back to the last time his heart had ached so badly… five days ago, he had sneaked into the Foutley's grand house in Protected Pines, and had crept into Carl's room, only to discover that he wasn't at home. Blake had had no intention of leaving, though; if he had to wait all day for Carl's return, so he could shake some sense into the stubborn older boy, then he would.

He had fallen back onto his friend's bed, thinking… it had been ages since he had been into this room, ever since Carl had withdrawn into his untouchable shell. He spied copies of homework assignments on the floor, which Carl had at first brought home, in the hopes that his best friend would wake up from his coma soon; eventually, Carl had given up.

Blake had then sat up suddenly, enraged. How could Carl have just done that, given up? He had given up on everything! He was failing so many subjects at school; he spent all his time walking around pointlessly, brooding, or cooped up in his room, refusing to see anyone. When his mother had tried to talk to him or send him for therapy, he had thrown a huge tantrum, and attempted to run away.

He refused to talk to anyone, and spent hours at the hospital, cleverly choosing to visit Hoodsey whenever Hoodsey's mother, Joanne Bishop wasn't there – everyone knew she blamed Carl. Mrs. Foutley and Mrs. Bishop had had the biggest argument Blake had ever witnessed, a few days after the accident, right over Carl's bed before he had been discharged. Carl had given up trying to defend himself that day.

But more importantly – Carl had given up on himself! Not to mention, he had given up on Blake. Hoodsey hadn't been his only best friend… what about Blake? How long had Blake spent, getting closer to Foutley, happy to have gained him as an ally at last? They had spent their teenage years together, "disgustingly joined at the hip", as Hoodsey had once called it. Blake had found the remark rather funny, because he still saw Hoodsey as Carl's main man, a fact that always caused a twinge of jealousy within him.

It was at that moment that Blake had caught sight of the two things on the dresser next to Carl's bed. One was the painted, sculptured glass model of a werewolf that Hoodsey had given him recently as a private joke in memory of Carl's brief "Wolf-man" stunt when they were kids. The other was the framed photograph of Carl and Hoodsey, a faded picture taken when the boys had been twelve. Blake had picked it up, staring at it… he knew that there also used to be three other picture frames on the dresser before – one of Carl's family, one of Carl, Hoodsey, and Noelle… and one of Carl with Blake. But the other three frames were gone, probably placed somewhere else or swept into a drawer, out of sight.

What happened next was so quick and unexpected, it had taken Blake several minutes to come to terms with it. He had torn his eyes away from the photograph, and his arm had stiffly swung to dump the picture frame unceremoniously back onto the dresser – when his hand accidentally knocked into the werewolf figure, and the glass sculpture had fallen right off the dresser… and smashed onto the floor, shattering.

Shattering into a million pieces.

Panicking, Blake had knelt on the floor, sweeping the broken fragments together, one hand clutching the top half of the werewolf that remained somewhat recognizable. He had cut his hand, and finally come to his senses, leaving the glass fragments on the floor. He had abandoned the scene of his crime, gingerly washing his bloody hand in Carl's bathroom sink.

Drops of his blood could be seen next to the dresser, but Blake had suddenly felt extremely sick, and had bolted. He couldn't face Carl after what he'd done; he knew that the glass werewolf had been too precious a reminder to Carl of Hoodsey. He feared if he owned up, Carl would wrap his hands around Blake's throat and kill him. He had run all the way home, guilt-ridden and scared of what the new, unrecognizably dark, impulsive and easily angered version of his former best friend would do to him when he found out.

It was only when he was pacing around in his own bedroom, hours later that Blake Gripling realized he had left his hat in Carl Foutley's bedroom, on his bed.

The next few days had been hell, as Blake spent all of his efforts avoiding Carl at school, and lurking at the park or mall after school in case Carl went to his house to seek him out. He had left his assignment folder in his locker after class on Friday in his rush to get out of school, because he had caught sight of Carl exiting one of the classrooms.

He knew Carl knew; the older boy suddenly seemed to remember Blake's existence after four months of wandering around in his own world, and every time he saw him, he would stare at him antagonistically. Blake suddenly found himself wishing the complete opposite of what he had been wishing for months; that Carl would forget him again and go back to ignoring him and the rest of the world, as opposed to coldly staring daggers at him. Blake could feel his eyes burning into the back of his neck during the classes they shared together; once when Blake was going to the toilet, Carl had walked out behind him, and snidely inquired, "Going to the bathroom, Blakey-boy?"

Blake had immediately turned back around and returned to class… he had suddenly gotten a vision of Carl beating him up in the deserted boys' lavatory. Once when they were in the cafeteria, Carl had slunk up behind Blake and muttered, "When I finally get you alone, Blakey, I promise you… you'll be _begging_ for mercy."

Blake had never quite felt scared of the older redhead before, not really. The horror he felt when Carl and Hoodsey kidnapped him when they were kids were more due to the idea of being sacrificed to ghosts. He had felt drawn to, admiring of, slightly obsessed with, scornful of, irritated with, confused by, infuriated with, and challenged by Carl, but never really afraid.

When they became friends, he and Carl were mutually glad of each other's company; the two of them were nearly as inseparable as Carl and Hoodsey. Even Hoodsey included Blake in everything, coming to like him enough to accept him. Noelle, however, would never quite like Blake, and Blake happily maintained that the feeling was rather mutual.

Blake shook himself out of his reverie, to find that Carl was sitting next to him, leaning against the upturned bucket. He had a tight grip on one of Blake's wrists, although Blake didn't remember when he had gotten hold of his hand. He peered through the dimness, trying to gauge Carl's mood. On the one hand, Carl wasn't sadistically breaking his bones one by one, but on the other hand… that grip on his wrist was quite painful.

"Uhm, Carl?"

Carl's head turned to the boy he had previously planned to slowly torture in enjoyment. "Yes, Gripling?"

Blake winced at the toneless "Gripling". If Carl was anywhere near forgiving him, he'd have just said "Blake", "BeeGee", or even "Blakey-boy".

"L-listen… I'm really sorry about that Werewolf thing… it was an accident, and then I got really… I suppose I freaked out… I knew you'd lose your head over it and, I just…" Blake stopped and winced in pain as Carl squeezed his wrist even tighter.

"C-carl! Stop! It was an _accident_-"

"Shut UP, Gripling!" Suddenly, Carl's other hand shot out and grabbed hold of Blake's jacket, roughly hauling the struggling boy away from the wall, and shoving him down onto the floor. Blake belatedly realized that Carl's rage was back… as was his own terror. He tried to get back up, but Carl's hand shoved him back down.

"CARL!"

A loud smack resounded within the small room. Carl had hit Blake in the face with the back of his hand, his other hand embedded in Blake's chest, holding the trembling boy down. Blake clutched at the side of his face in pain, eyes watering… Carl hadn't held back. For a moment, neither moved.

Then Carl, who had somehow ended up straddling Blake's hips to prevent him from kicking him, leant forward. The young blonde whimpered, and struggled in vain to get away. Carl growled and placed the hand that wasn't on Blake's chest, around his throat. Blake froze; he had imagined Carl throttling him in anger too many times before, he couldn't believe it was coming true.

"Carl, _please_. I'm so _sorry_…"

Blake closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the emotions. He was hardly scared anymore; he was just sorry. Sorry about what he'd done, sorry about everything. He also felt a strange longing blossoming in his chest: a sort of desire for the lunatic who was on top of him. There was even contentment; the two of them had been separated for so long, that even Carl's violence was a welcome relief to the void Blake hadn't realized he'd been dying to fill.

He knew he wouldn't fight back. He just couldn't bring himself to, not when he was weakened by his longing like this.

Carl sat atop one of his best friends, a headache pounding behind his temples, the anger coursing through his veins diminishing as he realized what he had just done. He'd hit Blake; the only one he had left. After first discarding the fifteen-year-old, alienating him like he had never meant anything, he'd hunted him down and attacked him. He had the younger boy underneath him, one hand wrapped around that pale, slender neck.

Carl suddenly felt immensely ill. When had he become a psychopathic criminal? Where had everything starting going so very wrong? He was Carl Foutley, weirdo, smart-ass, and although currently depressed, he was no emotionless bully! He wasn't supposed to be a murderous delinquent!

Blake felt Carl's hands loosen their hold on him, and opened his eyes. The redhead had one arm in front of his eyes, and was blindly, clumsily getting off Blake. He gaped, openmouthed, too stunned to get up from his defenseless position on the floor. Carl had come back to his senses! Something big that seemed to consist of relief and hope exploded inside the pit of Blake's stomach, as he watched Carl stagger to his feet and lean against the door of the janitor's closet.

"Carl?" Timidly, as he finally got up into a sitting position. A dry sob was all he heard in reply. Sighing, Blake pushed himself up off the floor, and moved towards his attacker without even thinking twice.

"Foutley." Blake said quietly, placing a hand on Carl's back. "I forgive you."

Blake Gripling had had years to learn how to be a better person since the tender age of seven, and nobody could quite possibly deny that he had indeed learnt well. He was now an expert at shelving his pride when he needed to… especially when it came to Carl, although he didn't always need to.

"_Blake_," choked Carl, "I am so sorry! I can't believe I lost it over a stupid- I just can't believe myself." He groaned, looking up at his friend. "I just… I was so _alone_, I mean, I know I wanted to be alone, but… when I saw the broken pieces, I started thinking in this… _way_, and… I couldn't _stop_." He shuddered. "I guess I really wanted to see you there, when Ginger said she saw you sneaking up to my room earlier that day, but then you _weren't_ there… and then I saw the…"

His voice trailed off uncertainly, as Blake was still reeling from the last bit of that little outburst. So Ginger had seen him? And here he thought he had pulled off being sneaky. More importantly, the way Carl had said… he had wanted to see Blake waiting for him, after so long of not wanting him around? Blake frowned at his distraught friend.

"Hoodsey." Blake watched without saying anything as Carl pulled away from the door, turning to directly face Blake. He took a deep breath and elaborated. "I guess I've just been pretty insane… the guy has been in that place too damn long, Blake. I mean, it's just… my fault, you know? If I hadn't been whining about Noelle that night, he wouldn't have even taken me to that stupid party. He hates those things."

"It wasn't your fault, you preposterous knucklehead." Blake declared angrily, startling Carl. "Well, sure, you two idiots shouldn't have gotten that drunk, and then getting into a car and attempting to drive, all tanked up like that, that _was_ pretty daft." He glared. "In fact, that was so stupid I could go on about it for the rest of eternity. But I shan't – I don't want you thinking for another minute that you're the one responsible for Hoodsey's condition, Carl. You're _not_. It doesn't matter if you were upset about Noelle, or whether you think Hoodsey only went to that party because of you… _he_ dragged _you_ along, remember? Anyway, stop blaming yourself, it's only self pity."

Carl's eyes widened momentarily before he drew very close to Blake, who nervously but stubbornly regarded him. "You know, you've got a lot of nerve saying stuff like that after I… jumped you." Carl looked lost for a moment. "Anyway it's not self pity! I'd rather throw my eyeball away than sit around feeling sorry for myself when Hoodsey's in that damn hospital."

Blake smiled ever so slightly. The eyeball phrase was something Carl had used since they were kids, referring to the petrified eyeball he used to carry around in a jar and been so proud of. He had absolutely hated Blake for stealing it from him back then – twice. Now Blake could have asked for it, and Carl would probably have given it to him willingly.

Blake sighed, and suddenly felt himself snapping. He ached for the physical side of Carl he had experienced a little while ago… except for the violent part. He was quite sure that he was losing his sanity, but the part of him that yelled at him to touch Carl really wasn't too bothered about it at the moment. He looked up longingly at the older boy… he seemed so much like the Carl Foutley from before the accident, the nostalgia was overwhelming. It was like someone had flipped a switch inside Carl's head, brought him back.

Carl sighed heavily, one arm lifting to rub the other awkwardly; a gesture Blake hadn't seen him do in a while. "Well, Blakey-boy, I guess I could give you a free shot at me, if that would make you feel better. I may have to kill you if you try to report me to the cops though… I don't intend on slumming it in prison." Carl grinned as Blake blinked at him confusedly. "Joking, just joking… no murder, I promise." He smiled at Blake. "How could I murder the last person I have left?"

Blake drew in a deep breath… and snapped.

For a second, Carl thought that Blake had actually decided to take that free shot, and was about to hit him. He distantly wondered if he should defend himself, but decided quickly that he'd take whatever was coming.

So he was rather confused when he found himself clung onto in a death-like embrace by the younger boy, who had buried his face in Carl's neck. He raised an awkward hand and patted Blake on the back… apparently, Blakey-boy had become much more forgiving and moralistic than Carl, somewhere along the way. Carl's eyes nearly filled with tears again as he realized how much he'd missed this annoying little brat. Shaking his head slightly, offended that he should break down twice in the same hour, Carl gripped Blake tightly, feeling a tight knot in his chest loosening up.

A familiar feeling of happiness and contentment flooded him, bringing him a light relief he had been missing since the accident four months ago. Carl suddenly felt like he was on the brink of understanding something, making some sort of discovery. Before he could analyze this thoroughly, he pulled back from the hug, making Blake whimper slightly in disappointment.

Carl grinned as he looked down at the younger boy, then unlatched the storage room door and swung it open. The sudden presence of light blinded them both, and Blake flung himself against the wall outside, groaning. Carl staggered around for a moment, getting used to the outside world again… he felt like he'd been locked away a long time, four months, in fact. Rubbing his eyes, he stooped back down into the janitor's closet, and reached for something past a fallen mop.

Straightening up again, he held out what he had picked up towards Blake. "I believe this is yours?"

Blake grinned and took his folder. "Why yes, it is. It's the very thing I came here for, before I was so rudely ambushed." He stared pointedly at Carl, who sighed and looked at him apologetically. "But since you didn't actually break any of my bones, I suppose I could let bygones be bygones." Blake smiled at the look of remorse.

Carl winced. "What I've done is unforgivable," he muttered, and Blake glared at him.

"Don't start. It'll just turn you into even more of a psychopathic nutcase."

Carl looked sickened at the thought and Blake laughed uneasily. "Well, let's stop talking about this, okay? I already told you, I forgive you."

Carl hesitated, then declared, "I'll get some proper help. I'll work things out, I promise."

Carl smiled, the first truly, full genuine smile Blake had seen in a long, long time. A feeling of giddiness settled over the blonde, and he found himself seriously questioning his emotions – why had Carl Foutley always affected him so? Ever since he was seven years old, he was always running after this crazy guy. He wasn't sure that he really wanted to face the answer, but a part of him inside already knew, had always known.

Carl's green eyes surveyed the light blush on Blake's normally pale complexion. He was starting to suspect that he wasn't the only one who had things inside himself to… "analyze". He surprisingly found that he was okay with that, in fact, it rather pleased him. Although he still could not quite put his latest discovery into words, he couldn't quite bring himself to react negatively to it either.

Suddenly, Noelle's words made a lot of sense to him… he frowned sadly. Once again, she was right… he had, again, not been able to truly dedicate himself to her, because he had been dedicated to someone else; even if he had been too blind at the time to realize. Perhaps it was great that she had found Will, her sensitive, loving Goth boyfriend. He remembered how she had come to comfort him after the accident, but he had told her to go away back to her boyfriend. How she had tried to introduce Will and how he had refused to meet him. He would have to remedy his friendship with her someday, he realized.

For now, he turned and gazed at the boy walking by his side, towards the front doors of the high school. Blake had a peaceful expression of new hope and contentment. As they strolled along the deserted corridor, Carl realized a part of him was glad he had ambushed Blake, and renewed their friendship. He determinedly ignored the part where he had hit him, knowing that it would haunt him for a very, very long time. He glanced at Blake again, just in time to see the younger boy blush and look away quickly, as if he had been watching him.

A cunning smirk unfolded on seventeen-year-old Carl's face, the kind of smirk that would have had a certain young Gripling sighing and fanning himself with his hand… and nobody was there to see it, except that exact, platinum-haired boy.

Carl threw out his arm to stop Blake right before they exited the front doors. Blake looked up at him questioningly, and before Carl could think himself out of it, he leant forward and gently brought his face closer to that of the frozen blonde, before hesitatingly brushing his lips against Blake's. When he felt the quiver and slight reciprocation, he found himself deepening the kiss, melding their lips together, one hand on the back of Blake's neck, another on the rough material of his jacket. He felt Blake's hands gripping at his shoulders, as Blake suddenly came alive and returned the kiss with full fervour.

When they finally broke apart for air, Carl Foutley, despite being caught in a chaotic whirl of emotions, still had his trademark demonic smile on.


End file.
